


Consecrated Ground

by Black_Crystal_Dragon



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Episode: s01e06 The Very Last Day of the Rest of Their Lives, Extended Scene, Gen, Gen or Pre-Slash, Light Angst, Lower Tadfield (Good Omens), M/M, Mentioned God (Good Omens), Mild Hurt/Comfort, Missing Scene, Soft Crowley (Good Omens), Wine, Worried Aziraphale (Good Omens), discussion of Falling, whatever their relationship in the show/book is to you
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-01
Updated: 2020-05-01
Packaged: 2021-03-01 19:54:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,858
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23932633
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Black_Crystal_Dragon/pseuds/Black_Crystal_Dragon
Summary: “Do you think all of this means I’m …?”He trailed off, but Crowley caught on to what he meant by sheer length of association.“No,” he scoffed. The very idea of Aziraphale Falling was ridiculous. And besides: “You’d know if you were. Not the sort of thing you miss.”After leaving Tadfield Airbase and making their way back into the village, Aziraphale worries about consequences and Crowley tries to help. A missing scene from Episode 6.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 3
Kudos: 24





	Consecrated Ground

**Author's Note:**

> _Good Omens_ was published 30 years ago today. Happy birthday to my favourite book in all the world! This isn't the fic I meant to post in honour of the occasion, but it was originally part of it, so that'll have to do.
> 
> Thank you to the wonderful [Ice_Elf](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ice_Elf/profile) for the beta and general encouragement.

An angel and a demon walked into Lower Tadfield.

They could have got a lift from someone, but Aziraphale had insisted on taking charge of the Horsepersons’ artefacts and was determined not to expose humans to their influence any more than absolutely necessary, which meant making their own way. Crowley had considered borrowing a jeep but, without the urgency of the impending Apocalypse, driving anything that was not his beloved Bentley seemed disrespectful so soon after its demise. Instead, he’d produced a cardboard box for the crown and scales and fallen in step beside the angel as they walked out of the airbase.

Aziraphale had glanced at him as they passed the still-burning remains of the car, but Crowley had set his jaw against the loss and kept going. If he’d lengthened his stride until the Bentley was gone from his peripheral vision, well. The angel had only matched his pace and said nothing, so they could both pretend it never happened.

They’d made their way along the winding tarmac towards Lower Tadfield, the way ahead obscured by tall hedges and the gathering night. Crowley had been surprised that Aziraphale didn’t talk. He had filled the space between them with idle chatter countless times across the centuries, after both undeserved commendations from Below and grim edicts from Above, but this time he remained silent. Crowley had been left alone with the grim circling of his own thoughts, missing the distraction of Aziraphale’s voice with every step.

However, it was only as they stepped from the countryside darkness into the warm glow of the streetlights in the village proper that the angel finally spoke.

“Do you think all of this means I’m …?”

He trailed off, but Crowley caught on to what he meant by sheer length of association.

“No,” he scoffed. The very idea of Aziraphale Falling was ridiculous. And besides: “You’d know if you were. Not the sort of thing you miss.”

“Well, no,” Aziraphale conceded reluctantly. “But – I disobeyed …”

“Ah, but not the Ineffable Plan, right?” Crowley interrupted, waggling his fingers against the corners of the box in the closest approximation he could manage to sarcastic jazz-hands. Aziraphale gave him a look that told him exactly what he thought of that idea. He shrugged and took things a little more seriously. “Look, you went against what Gabriel and the other angels wanted, that’s all.”

“Yes, I know that. But …” Aziraphale stopped short. Crowley was sure he would have been wringing his hands if one of them wasn’t occupied with holding the sword. With the air of a confession, he blurted, “I questioned the Almighty, Crowley!”

He looked miserable and Crowley was tired, truly bone-deep tired, of Heaven putting that expression on his face.

“Believe me, it takes more than that these days,” he said with as much patience as he could muster. It wasn’t Aziraphale he was angry with, after all, and it wouldn’t do to upset him further with misplaced bad temper.

“Does it?”

Aziraphale considered it, brow crumpled and unconvinced, as they passed between the pools of light along the pavement. The look on his face reached straight into Crowley’s chest and took hold of his beating heart. 

“Look, if it bothers you that much, it’s easy enough to find out one way or the other,” he said.

“Oh?” Aziraphale said, brightening a little.

Crowley tipped his head in the direction of the church. They were quite close now. “Consecrated ground.”

To his surprise, the angel blanched. “Oh, no. No, I don’t think I – right now?”

“No time like the present,” Crowley pointed out.

He headed towards the lichgate and into the churchyard before there could be any argument, trusting that the angel would follow. He put the box of apocalyptic paraphernalia down in the porch and threw open the church doors with a flourish before turning around. Sure enough, Aziraphale was a couple of paces behind him. He had the sword hilt clutched to his chest like a knight on a tomb, though his expression was less noble valour and more queasy panic.

“So,” Aziraphale said. His voice only shook a little.

“How about if I go first, hm?” Crowley suggested and stepped over the threshold even as Aziraphale started to protest.

The burn was immediate, sizzling up through his soles. _Still a demon, then._ He gasped and hopped a few paces deeper into the soft velvet dark of the church. He’d forgotten how much it hurt. Still, it was worth it, just as it had been the last time he’d ventured onto consecrated ground. He spun around and gave Aziraphale the most encouraging smile he could muster under the circumstances.

“Your turn,” he hissed as he shifted awkwardly from foot to foot.

Aziraphale hesitated on the threshold. There was dread etched into the line between his brows as he stared down at the tiles inside. Crowley grimaced and clung onto a pew to take some of the pressure off his feet.

“Angel. You have nothing to worry about,” he said, but the longer Aziraphale delayed, the more concern squeezed its way into Crowley’s chest. What if he was wrong? They’d got away with several millennia of collusion without consequences, but what if averting Armageddon was the last straw? He sucked in a deep breath and added, “And even if you do, it’s not that bad. Not now. Is it?”

Falling was terrible, yes – but if Aziraphale had somehow managed to do it without noticing, the worst was over already. Whatever the Almighty decided about his state of grace, or lack thereof, they were both outcasts from Heaven and Hell. No obligation to either side. No one but themselves to please. It mattered, of course it mattered whether Aziraphale had Fallen or not – but the point was that they would still have the Earth and each other. That wouldn’t change, whatever the outcome.

Crowley hadn’t articulated that particularly well, but Aziraphale seemed to understand what he meant anyway. When he looked up, there was a desperate hope in his eyes. Crowley let go of the pew with one hand and offered it to him. Aziraphale took a great breath and walked towards him.

He had no trouble whatsoever crossing the church floor.

“There,” Crowley said as the angel’s hand slipped into his. He had to fight to keep his voice nonchalant. “Not Fallen. See?”

Aziraphale sighed and closed his eyes. “Then maybe we were right about the Ineffable Plan, after all.”

His relief wasn’t quite a visible glow in the dark but Crowley could sense it. The light that surrounded him in the ethereal plane shone both brighter and warmer and he found himself leaning into the edges of it until he caught himself and swayed back.

He’d forgotten where he was standing.

He bit back a yelp and jerked as he rocked down onto his heels without thinking, searing them. He grabbed at Aziraphale to keep from overbalancing.

“Oh, your poor feet!” the angel exclaimed. “Here, let me help you.”

“I really don’t think that’s necessary,” Crowley protested, but already an arm was around his waist and Aziraphale was half-carrying him back towards the door, and by the time he was finished speaking he had been deposited on the secular stonework of the porch. He cleared his throat and straightened his jacket as Aziraphale removed himself from his personal space. “Thanks.”

Aziraphale’s smile was small and entirely too sincere. “No, thank you, Crowley.”

“Stop it,” Crowley scowled. He collected the box and strode away before the angel could say anything else. “Come on, I saw somewhere to sit.”

“Shan’t be a tick,” Aziraphale called after him.

Crowley glanced over his shoulder to see him disappear back inside the church. Probably offering up private thanks. Or just relishing in the fact he could stand on consecrated ground still. Crowley shook his head and left him to it. There were benches outside the churchyard, no miracles necessary, and he established himself on his usual side of one of them to wait. He told himself that he wasn’t at all worried and managed to pretend that he wasn’t fidgeting for about a minute before he twisted around to watch for Aziraphale. His shoulders didn’t quite relax until he emerged and hurried over to join him.

“Thought we could both use a little something,” Aziraphale said. He handed Crowley a bottle of communion wine.

“Stealing? From the house of God?” Crowley said, impressed and faintly delighted as he always was when the angel yielded to a wayward impulse.

“It’s hardly stealing when I left generous compensation,” Aziraphale said tartly, and then ruined the effect by adding in a softer voice, “It’s not consecrated.”

Crowley gave him a narrow look. As if Aziraphale would give him something dangerous without an enormous fuss, let alone expect him to drink it. The angel somehow managed to read his expression even through the lenses of his sunglasses and in the dark, and had the decency to look sheepish. He retreated to his end of the bench, agonised over where to put the sword before sitting down, fussed with the pockets of his waistcoat and finally settled with his hands clasped in front of him. Crowley tried very hard not to smile as he watched the process unfold.

“What are we waiting for?” Aziraphale asked, pretending to stare off into the dark across the street while eyeing Crowley sidelong.

“Bus’ll show up eventually,” he shrugged and busied himself with opening the bottle. He didn’t have high hopes for the quality, and the alcohol content would be lower than he’d like, but it was better than nothing.

Aziraphale didn’t comment on the lack of bus stops in the immediate vicinity but the corner of his mouth ticked up. He said quietly, “Well. I suppose we have time.”

Crowley hummed in vague agreement. After all, there was no more countdown to Armageddon to worry about – just the little question of what Heaven and Hell would do next. He reckoned they had a while before their respective bureaucracies got their acts together, but they weren’t off the hook. It wasn’t like either side could afford to let them get away with desertion and rebellion. Heaven’s Archangels and the Dukes of Hell wouldn’t want the rank and file to imagine that was even a possibility, let alone one that would go unpunished. No, the time they had now was a reprieve, nothing more. A stay of execution.

He violently suppressed the avenue of thought conjured by that turn of phrase and sampled the wine as a distraction. It was light and sweet but he could taste the alcohol on his breath when he exhaled into the night air.

“Not bad,” he murmured, pleasantly surprised, and tipped the bottle back again to properly fill his mouth with syrupy fruit flavours.

Aziraphale wasn’t listening. There was a notch between his brows that suggested he had found something else to fret over, and Crowley knew from long experience that he wouldn’t keep it to himself for long. He waited, content to sit with his best friend for as much time as it took for him to find the words.

**Author's Note:**

> This entire scene was born because I kept thinking, ‘Where _did_ that bottle of wine come from?’ 
> 
> Communion wine or sacramental wine should be fine for a demon to drink as long as it hasn’t been consecrated/blessed yet. Same as water, really. :) One of several sources I found for this is [here](https://vinepair.com/wine-blog/the-popes-coming-to-town-drink-some-sacramental-wine/) (see the final sentence).


End file.
